It was easy to say that, like saying,
If I believed men could fly I would jump off the John Hancock Building
. Or,
If I believed what you believed I would die for it
. It was only an if—and a selfish boasting if. All they were really saying was, “… If, and pass the mustard.”
“That’s a pretty powerful example of faith, don’t you think?”
I lied again, and I thought: Powerful example of a lack of faith, you mean!
“Let me ask you a question,” the Pastor said, making a fresh start, as if the conversation had just begun. “If you were chosen by God to be a priest, and if you had enough sanctifying grace—what sort of priest would you be?”
I was stumped. But he went on staring. His stare said: I’ve got all day to watch you squirm.
“I don’t know, Father,” I said in a pleading voice.
“Have a try.” He seemed friendlier saying this—it was the first kindly encouragement he had given me. I decided to tell him the truth.
I said, “I would try to model myself on Father Furty.”
The Pastor began slowly leaning back as if trying to get me into focus by making me small.
I said, “I was his altar boy. I used to watch him.”
But my words were dropping into a void—into the space that had opened up between us. I knew I had already failed. Nothing I said really mattered, and yet I could tell from the flick of his eyes that I had triggered something in the Pastor.
“Wouldn’t that be the easy way out?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Father Furty—God rest his soul—was alone when he died. He was alone physically. He was alone emotionally and spiritually. Weakness is a terrible thing—it’s a kind of cowardice. It can make you a very easy target for the devil. Father Furty abused his body. Do you think a person can abuse his body without abusing his soul?”
“No, Father.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
It was a cruel question; it was one that Father Furty hated. But I had already failed—and way back, lying about penance and prayer; so I lied again.
“When evil gets a grip on you,” the Pastor said, with a kind of horrible energy, “it never lets go. Never! And you burn for all eternity.” It was what Father Feeney had said, ranting on the Common. The Pastor’s voice was quavering again and the scrape of his breathing began. “That’s why we have to pray for the repose of Father Furty’s soul.”
His chair creaked and he was facing me.
“You don’t want to model yourself on Father Furty.”
I lied once again.
“I think you can do better than that,” the Pastor said.
He meant Father Furty’s disgrace—much worse now that he was dead, because he wasn’t around to repent. He had died and left us with the mess to clean up, getting his stained soul out of Purgatory.
I said yes, I could do better than that; but it was the worst lie I had told all day—not only was it a denial of Father Furty, but it was a claim that I could do something I couldn’t. I was in despair: in belittling my dead friend I had destroyed my vocation. Then I thought: I don’t really have a vocation.
“I think you’re going to work out fine,” the Pastor said, for I had agreed to everything he said. He had me on his terms.
He ended by speaking of the Church. When he mentioned the Church I thought of a church building and saw it very clearly. It was a tiny boxlike thing with a stumpy steeple and very few pews; it was hard to enter and uncomfortable inside, which was why most of us were outside.
“I hope I’ve given you something to think about.”
“Yes, Father.”
He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper with typing on it.
“This is the new altar boy roster,” he said. “You’ve had your three funerals. You’ve got a wedding on Saturday. Make sure your shoes are shined,” and put the paper down with his left hand and raised his right. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
10.
“Where are you going with your gun?” Tina said, as
If I believed men could fly I would jump off the John Hancock Building
. Or,
If I believed what you believed I would die for it
. It was only an if—and a selfish boasting if. All they were really saying was, “… If, and pass the mustard.”
“That’s a pretty powerful example of faith, don’t you think?”
I lied again, and I thought: Powerful example of a lack of faith, you mean!
“Let me ask you a question,” the Pastor said, making a fresh start, as if the conversation had just begun. “If you were chosen by God to be a priest, and if you had enough sanctifying grace—what sort of priest would you be?”
I was stumped. But he went on staring. His stare said: I’ve got all day to watch you squirm.
“I don’t know, Father,” I said in a pleading voice.
“Have a try.” He seemed friendlier saying this—it was the first kindly encouragement he had given me. I decided to tell him the truth.
I said, “I would try to model myself on Father Furty.”
The Pastor began slowly leaning back as if trying to get me into focus by making me small.
I said, “I was his altar boy. I used to watch him.”
But my words were dropping into a void—into the space that had opened up between us. I knew I had already failed. Nothing I said really mattered, and yet I could tell from the flick of his eyes that I had triggered something in the Pastor.
“Wouldn’t that be the easy way out?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Father Furty—God rest his soul—was alone when he died. He was alone physically. He was alone emotionally and spiritually. Weakness is a terrible thing—it’s a kind of cowardice. It can make you a very easy target for the devil. Father Furty abused his body. Do you think a person can abuse his body without abusing his soul?”
“No, Father.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
It was a cruel question; it was one that Father Furty hated. But I had already failed—and way back, lying about penance and prayer; so I lied again.
“When evil gets a grip on you,” the Pastor said, with a kind of horrible energy, “it never lets go. Never! And you burn for all eternity.” It was what Father Feeney had said, ranting on the Common. The Pastor’s voice was quavering again and the scrape of his breathing began. “That’s why we have to pray for the repose of Father Furty’s soul.”
His chair creaked and he was facing me.
“You don’t want to model yourself on Father Furty.”
I lied once again.
“I think you can do better than that,” the Pastor said.
He meant Father Furty’s disgrace—much worse now that he was dead, because he wasn’t around to repent. He had died and left us with the mess to clean up, getting his stained soul out of Purgatory.
I said yes, I could do better than that; but it was the worst lie I had told all day—not only was it a denial of Father Furty, but it was a claim that I could do something I couldn’t. I was in despair: in belittling my dead friend I had destroyed my vocation. Then I thought: I don’t really have a vocation.
“I think you’re going to work out fine,” the Pastor said, for I had agreed to everything he said. He had me on his terms.
He ended by speaking of the Church. When he mentioned the Church I thought of a church building and saw it very clearly. It was a tiny boxlike thing with a stumpy steeple and very few pews; it was hard to enter and uncomfortable inside, which was why most of us were outside.
“I hope I’ve given you something to think about.”
“Yes, Father.”
He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper with typing on it.
“This is the new altar boy roster,” he said. “You’ve had your three funerals. You’ve got a wedding on Saturday. Make sure your shoes are shined,” and put the paper down with his left hand and raised his right. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
10.
“Where are you going with your gun?” Tina said, as
Similar Books
